Observations Like a Jell-O Funeral

One nice thing about wearing a shirt with long sleeves is that occasionally I am required to roll them up to do something. And that just feels cool in a real dorky kind of way.

Two days ago, I worked out for the first time in approximately two years. You know how it is: some chick cracks your rib in bed and the doctor tells you to go a month without working out so you let your gym membership expire and never go back and your body morphs into an almost never-before seen state of dormancy over the next twenty-four months. Anyway, I'm in a lot of pain right now.

My muscle memory is way better than my actual memory. That kind of sucks.

Anna Nicole Smith died with a major trial in the works. It's respectable when people die the way they lived. I think.

When I die, I hope someone gets laid at my funeral. In fact, I think I should write that in to my goodbye message or something. “This is Nathan DeGraaf, speaking from beyond the grave. Fuck your man before I'm in the damn ground, would you? I would have wanted it that way. Oh, and try the fish. It's fresh.”

At my funeral, I'm serving food. Well, I mean I'm not actually serving it but I want it to be served.

I tried to make out a will once but the lawyer said it wasn't worth the effort given my assets. Also, he wanted me to pay him. Snake.

Sometimes, when I'm at a funeral, I'll start thinking about all the people I know who died. I like to imagine them all at the same concert venue. Except for the kid who stole my skateboard when I was nine. I don't know who he was or if he's even dead. But I like to picture him rotting in hell. On a spit. Rotating like a rotisserie chicken. I don't enjoy funerals all that much.

Come to think of it, I don't think anyone enjoys funerals. If I met a person who said he enjoyed funerals, I'd probably think him to be a little bit of a sicko. And I've found uses for Jell-O and pudding that border on unhealthy.

It's funny when someone catches you and a girl, covered in chocolate pudding, writhing around on a freshly-waxed kitchen floor. But it's even funnier when it's not your floor.

I wish I was fiscally rewarded for things like “cleaning my car” or “taking out the garbage.” But, don't we all.

And finally, because logic and fluidity took a bus ride to Miami to help out sunburn victims, I leave you with the following, which was told to me by a complete stranger at the Gasparilla Night Parade: